


3:23 AM

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:12:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree is often awake at odd hours of the morning. Normally, he is the only one, but this time he stumbles upon Hanzo with tears in his eyes and a photograph in his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:23 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr prompt from a lovely anon, wherein it was requested to see McCree walk in on a crying Hanzo. Because I guess this anon hates me. (I love them, though.)

It’s a truly unholy hour of the morning when McCree wakes with a start. Heart racing, chest tight: another nightmare. A milder one this time--he didn’t wake himself up screaming, and the last vestiges of his dream are already dissipating in the waking world. 

The numbers of the holographic clock burn into his eyes and remain even after he closes them again: 3:23 AM. He tries to roll over and fall back asleep, but he knows this pattern well. His body won’t even make the attempt at sleep until he’s spent another hour awake again. With a resigned groan, he hauls himself out of bed, shoves a half-full box of cigarillos and a lighter in his pocket, and meanders in the direction of the kitchen. 

Naturally, the base is dead quiet and dark as pitch. The automated lights kick on as McCree goes, leaving a trail of luminescence behind him, and then click off again one by one. He pads, barefoot, into the kitchen and helps himself to a glass of sweet iced tea from the fridge. It’s not like  _ mamá  _ used to make at home, but it soothes his parched throat and give him something else to focus on besides his chronic insomnia.

As he’s turning to go back to his tiny dorm, a noise catches his attention from the large dining room next door. It’s so soft that he nearly misses it: a gasping, catching breath. He freezes, ear toward the doorway, and when the noise continues, he recognizes it for what it is. Someone is crying in the next room over. 

His first instinct is to sneak away, give them their privacy, and pretend he didn’t remember it in the morning. Guilt tugs at his heart as he thinks of it, however, and he carefully makes his way into the dining room. 

There is nobody at the wide table used for their team meals, but the large sliding glass door at the end of the room is cracked open. A figure sits outside on the pseudo-porch overlooking the cliffside, and just as McCree’s about to speak, the automatic light flicks on to reveal Hanzo--and give away his own presence.

Hanzo immediately freezes, spine and shoulders stiffening. McCree swears under his breath and doesn’t move. He watches as Hanzo lifts his hand towards his face in a motion that looks an awful lot like swiping at his eyes. 

After a long moment, McCree manages to unstick his feet from the floor. He makes it to the glass door before Hanzo growls out, his voice thick and low, “Leave.”

Instead of deterring him, this strengthens McCree’s resolve. “Sorry partner, no can do,” he says, stepping out and sliding the door gently closed behind him. “You the one I heard cryin’, Hanzo?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hanzo turns his face away as McCree stands beside him: an obvious avoidance tactic. A tear track glistens on the edge of his sharp cheekbone before he brushes it away. 

“C’mon Hanzo, I ain’t stupid.” McCree sits, knees bent and feet propped on the step below, and sets aside his unfinished iced tea. “I ain’t here to make fun of you. Just wanna make sure you’re okay, is all.”

Now that’s he’s sitting, he can see Hanzo is holding something in his lap. It’s roughly the dimensions of a photograph, but the image is turned away from his view. Hanzo is resolutely silent, his jaw clenched so tight McCree thinks his teeth might start cracking. 

“Hanzo,” he tries again gently. “You don’t gotta tell me what’s goin’ on. But I ain’t one to leave a friend alone.”  _ Friend _ is a bit of an understatement on his part, but now isn’t the time to linger on his unrequited crush. 

Now Hanzo turns to give him a glare, no less threatening for the shine of tears in his eyes or the ruddy pink in his cheeks. “I told you to leave. I am  _ fine _ ,” he repeats. 

“Nope.” McCree crosses his arms over his knees and looks out. The patio perfectly overlooks the jagged Gibraltar cliffs and the dark, star-scattered sky. It would be a beautiful view if not for the overwhelming concern McCree is feeling for the man beside him. He has never known Hanzo to show any hint of vulnerability. Anger, yes, to cover up the guilt and self-loathing he has carried for a decade, but never anything like this. It’s enough to set his own heart breaking.

Hanzo eventually looks away, too, unable to keep up his glare. He looks down at his lap, and this time McCree can see the photo: an image of Hanzo and Genji together, taken many years ago judging by the green in Genji’s hair and Hanzo’s youthful face. McCree is somehow both surprised and not to see the severe expression the younger Hanzo maintains, even as Genji grins at the camera. 

“Where’d you get that?” he asks. 

Hanzo doesn’t answer for a long time. The photo is trembling faintly in his hands. 

“Genji gave it to me,” he says when a full minute has passed. “Earlier this evening. He said he has kept a copy of this photo in his . . .  _ home _ in Nepal.”

McCree digs out his box of cigarillos and casually lights up. He’s learned by now how to approach Hanzo: softly and patiently. Pressing for details will only leave him with his curiosity unsated. He blows out a mouthful of smoke and watches it disappear into the cool night air.

Hanzo sighs heavily. “I had forgotten we had ever taken this photo. It was just before our father died.” He rubs his thumb along the corner of the smooth paper. “There are no photos of my family after this one. Not long after this was when I . . .” He trails off, lips pursed into a thin line. 

McCree shifts his arms so that he can nudge his knee gently against Hanzo’s. “That was a long time ago,” he says. 

“It does not change what I have done.” The picture crinkles in Hanzo’s fingers. “We were close as children. I destroyed that trust single-handedly. Genji acts as though he has forgiven me, but it changes nothing.”

Hanzo’s eyes shimmer suddenly; he closes them, but it does not stop another tear streaking down his cheek. McCree nearly breaks his cigarillo resisting the urge to reach out and touch. Hanzo abruptly throws the photo away, sending it spinning and fluttering somewhere into the dirt. 

“I have ruined him and I have ruined everything I was raised to take over,” he says, dropping his head and covering his eyes with one hand. “I have tried to atone, but nothing can ever redeem me for--” He cuts off on what sounds suspiciously like a repressed sob. His shoulders begin to shake and his breath shudders out between gritted teeth.

“Oh, darlin’,” McCree murmurs. He drops his smoldering cigarillo into his tea, ruining both, and starts to reach out--he only just catches himself before he can wrap an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders. Instead, he rests his hand against Hanzo’s back, firmly between his shoulder blades. Hanzo’s skin is warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Surprisingly, Hanzo does not move away, so McCree scoots over until he can press his hip and leg against Hanzo’s, creating a warm, comforting line that doesn’t quite tip over the edge of friendship. Hanzo is silent, moving neither away nor closer, his body trembling minutely with grief. McCree thinks about embracing him tight and kissing away tears; he does neither, and simply waits, absently rubbing his thumb along a notch in Hanzo’s spine. 

They stay that way for a long time, until Hanzo’s body has stilled and the ice has melted into McCree’s abandoned tea. It’s cold, and McCree is rapidly crossing the line into sleep-deprived. But when he hears Hanzo mutter a rough “thank you,” he realizes he would wake up every morning at 3:23 AM to do it again. 

“Of course, Hanzo,” he replies. “Anytime.” 


End file.
